Get the hell away from me. It’s early November, you son of a bitch. You don’t belong here. Go away.

The stores are bursting with the syrup of relentless commercial cheer and the TV is moist with profitable yuletide joy and just get the hell away from me. I will not spend the next six weeks listening to your happy, vomitous prattle. I will not spend fully twelve percent of my life with elves and bells and goddamned Santa. I will not.

You get the hell away from me, you bastard. You can come back December 11th. Maybe. Push me and I’ll make it the 18th.